Scenario:Through the Darkest Corridors There’s a moment, right before everything falls apart, when you almost sense it coming. A shift in the air. A silence too heavy. A feeling in your gut that whispers, This is where it begins. I’ve walked through many doors in my life—some I opened willingly, some I was shoved through, and others collapsed behind me, trapping me inside. But nothing prepares you for the ones that lead into darkness. The ones where you can’t turn back, only stumble forward, hoping there’s something—anything— waiting on the other side. Grief doesn’t come with instructions. Neither does betrayal. You just wake up one day, and the world isn’t what it was yesterday. Someone you love is gone. Someone you trusted isn’t who you thought they were. Something inside you cracks, and you don’t know if it will ever fully mend. The first time I understood real loss, I wasn’t ready. No one ever is. Death has a way of making everything else feel small, like a wave that swallows the shore, erasing all the footprints that came before it. I tried to hold on, tried to understand, but grief doesn’t give you time to prepare. It drags you under, and suddenly, you’re in the dark, feeling your way through corridors you never wanted to walk. And the worst part? No one can walk them for you. I learned quickly that people don’t know what to say when you’re drowning. Some offer empty words. Some disappear altogether. And a rare few sit with you in the dark, even when they don’t understand it themselves. But in the end, it’s just you and the weight of it all, searching for a way through. This is where my journey through hell began. Not with fire and brimstone, but with silence. With absence. With a door that closed and a road I never wanted to take. But once you step into the darkness, there’s no going back. You just keep moving, even when you can’t see where the hell you’re headed. Echoes of Those Who Left Too Soon Grief doesn’t leave. It lingers. It clings to the walls of your mind, whispering in the quiet moments, slipping into your dreams, turning the most ordinary things into ghosts. A song. A scent. A laugh you swore you heard, even though you know it’s impossible. The dead don’t speak, but their absence is louder than any voice I’ve ever known. There are people who should still be here. People whose stories weren’t supposed to end when they did. But life doesn’t give a damn about what should be. It takes when it wants, without reason, without warning, leaving you standing in the wreckage, trying to make sense of something senseless. I still hear them. Not in some supernatural way—no, nothing that comforting. Just in the little things. The way a phrase escapes my mouth, and I realize I sound just like them. The way I reach for my phone before remembering there’s no one left to answer. The way their name feels like broken glass in my throat when I try to say it out loud. People tell you time heals, but that’s bullshit. Time doesn’t heal; it just builds distance. It stretches the pain out so it doesn’t suffocate you all at once. But the echoes? They never fade. Some days, I chase them. I replay old memories, trying to keep them alive a little longer, terrified that one day, I’ll forget the exact sound of their laughter or the way they looked when they weren’t